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“No. We’ve made it, Thea. You are in your chamber, the driver is gone with our imaginary chaperone in tow, and if anyone was to find us now, it would all be right and proper because you are sleeping in your own bed, exactly where you should have been for the last six months.”
Thea seemed to accept this answer. “And you?”
“After I fetch our bags, I intend to fall into my own bed and sleep until Sunday.”
She gave a soft nod. “Good night, Ben.”
“Good night.”
I closed her door and turned away to find my way downstairs to fetch the bags. A person stood in the center of the corridor, and I startled, jumping back slightly as cold swept through my body.
“Benedict?” she asked.
“Mother,” I said, equal parts relieved and hesitant. Her familiar pink dressing gown was slightly discernible in the dark corridor, and her hair was gathered beneath a cap. I could not make out her features easily, for she bore no candle, but I could see the relief in the fall of her shoulders.
I swallowed. How long had she been standing there, and how much of my conversation with Thea had she overheard?The driver is gone with our imaginary chaperone in tow.
“Thea is home?” she asked, her hopeful voice churning my stomach. This was why I had gone on that wretched journey, spending five months in and out of various small towns, questioning innkeepers and shopkeepers about a small, dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and round blue eyes. The miniature I had taken with me had been inordinately helpful, slowly directing me along Thea’s path thanks to her memorable face. The wretch was too beautiful to not be noticed.
I stepped forward and pulled my mother into a brief hug. “Yes, she is home.”
“And well?” she asked into my shoulder. “She is healthy and unharmed?”
I released her. “She is thin, but so far as I can tell, she is unharmed. You will have to question her in the morning. For now, I believe she needs to rest.” And to have ample time to change into clothes befitting a woman.
The silence and privacy provided a good opportunity to inform Mother that Thea would not be going to Lord Claverley’s house, but her weary face reminded me of the sheer amount of strain Thea’s absence had put her under. She deserved a break for a moment. I could not bear to add to her worries just yet.
“Rest is good,” she agreed, pulling out a tinderbox from the table set against the wall and lighting a candle. “Then she must answer for her absence.”
“Of course.”
Mother let out a long, deep sigh. “I am heartened to have you returned to us again, Benedict. Will you remain for a little while this time?”
I tried for a lighter tone. “Under the same roof as Thea? I am not certain that is a good idea.” I considered escaping to our hunting lodge for the foreseeable future, or at least long enough to recover from the last week.
“It could give you the opportunity to mend your differences.”
I had hoped the same thing, but it had proved impossible over the journey we took together. Thea did not appear to like me, and I could not stop myself from baiting or arguing with her. We were too volatile toward one another. The weight of my disappointment filled me. “If four days in a carriage could not mend our differences, I am not certain remaining in the same house will be any more powerful.”
Mother’s lips flattened, and a shadow magnified the line between her eyebrows. I hated causing her grief.
“I will stay,” I finally said. I couldn’t promise how long I would remain, but I could give Mother a fortnight, surely. “And I will do my best not to . . . bicker . . . with Thea.”
“Thank you, darling.” Mother reached for my hand and squeezed my fingers. “Now get some sleep. You sound fatigued.”
I was tired. To the depths of my bones, fatigue wore at me and slowed my movements. The sheer amount of strain I had been under the last few months revealed itself in the heaviness of my limbs and the weariness of my soul. I was tired, but not just physically. When I had told Thea I planned to sleep until Sunday, I meant it.
“We must be careful, I think,” I said cautiously. “Or she could run again.”
Mother looked at me with confusion. “Why would she?”
I was too weary to begin the conversation about Thea’s refusal to go to Claverley’s house, and I feared it would only cause Mother to charge into her room for an explanation. Thea was exhausted, and she was still dressed as a boy. I couldn’t risk Mother entering her chamber now. I tried to remain vague. “She had a reason for leaving Mrs. Moulton’s, I am sure. If we are not careful, she might think running away is her only option again.”
Mother nodded. “We must remind her that she is loved here, that she is part of the family.” She sighed. “I loved Thea’s mother so dearly. She was more of a sister to me than a friend, and Thea has no one else. Her Northcott uncle is lazy and unkind, and she cannot rely on him. We need to prove to her that she is loved, that she can rely on us.”
The steady passion with which Mother spoke hit me with great force, and her motivations for feeling responsible for Thea’s wellbeing resonated with me. I pictured Thea how I had first seen her in the garden, thin and tired, and I did not like it. I did not want for her to feel, either, that her only option was to run away—not when she had people who loved her like Mother did. Like we all did.
“Good night, Mother.”
